Thief of Hearts
by aliceann
Summary: In treatment Neal discovers something he thought he had lost forever,while the therapist who helps him finds an unexpected lesson in love; as they ponder art, beauty, truth and Degas.
1. Chapter 1

**Thief of Hearts**

**Chapter 1**

His scent still lingered on her skin, exploding softly in her memory like a landmine. Normally she had the means of disciplining her mind, but he persisted in her thoughts. He wouldn't be shunted aside. Dr. Miranda Ford fitted into her life perfectly. She somehow managed to have it all; powerhouse career, successful husband, accomplished kids. She was focused, driven and brilliant. She led a charmed life, until today. In the business of giving advice, now she was in need of it. Always so certain, here she was riddled with doubt. It was years since she trained under Samuel Tanner. He helped her through the darkest period of her life, and was the only person she completely trusted. She was grateful he could see her on such short notice.

Sam was that rare find in a psychoanalyst, disciplined, creative and unabashedly in love with the anarchy that was the human mind. Totally his own man, he managed to stay off the radar of all but the fortunate few who could really benefit from the cure. His was a world away from the rich and powerful clientele she treated. The worried well needed help too, and she had become their specialist. When Neal Caffrey showed up on her doorstep, she thought he would be a welcomed change of pace.

"So, what do we know about your convict?" Sam said settling into his chair.

"_Ex_ convict," she said, immediately regretting the defensiveness in her voice.

"So much for neutrality," he smiled.

"Damn it, Sam. Are you going to help or not? And by the way, when did you become so judgmental?"

"When you decided to throw away everything you've worked so hard to build and everything I taught you, kiddo. You know this has to end. What were you expecting out of this conversation?"

She paled slightly, averting his gaze. Her thoughts carried her back to earlier in the day. Waves of his tender touch and affection rolling over her, one after another, after another, after another. What was she doing? Of all people she should know better. She was no smitten school girl, yet even now he invaded her thoughts as easily as he had her body.

"You are not going to tell me you love him, are you?

"I...I don't know."

"Does Simon know?"

"Why? You never liked Simon."

"I never liked Simon for you."

"We've made a life together, it's not perfect... I know. He adores the twins and he's been good to me, maybe too good. I think he tries to make up for my… ," her voice wavered.

"Not loving him," Sam finished her sentence.

"So, now you're a marriage counselor too." she retorted.

"I don't have to be, to see you're in trouble. So then, let's dispense with the usual suspects for bedding a patient: rescue fantasies, unresolved transference, troubled marriage."

"That's so easy Sam; you think I didn't think of all that."

"What's easy is sleeping with a patient, giving into your own needs, violating a trust under the pretense of treatment. Playing God is easy. Honestly Miranda, did you think you were saving him?"

Nothing he could say she thought would be worse than what she already felt, yet hearing him say it out loud was devastating. She felt ill with shame and the weight of what she had done.

"I think it's the other way around, I think he might be saving me," her eyes tingled with tears.

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his chair, surprised by the intensity of his disapproval. He had seen Miranda cry only once, the night her patient died 15 years ago. From the look in her eyes, he knew this would be a long night. He drew in a deep breath and slowly blew it out.

"So, let's talk about Neal Caffrey. I read the file on him you sent me. IQ of 180, eidetic memory, consummate forger, convicted of bond theft, recent loss of longtime relationship, some question of PTSD. Did I miss anything? I see the referring psychiatrist was a student of yours."

"Yeah, Susan Donahue. She consults with the FBI and saw Neal for a few sessions before going out on maternity leave. She processed him for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but felt there was more to his story. She liked him. Thought he needed more work and someone with more experience than the FBI had on board. I owed her a favor."

"That was one hell of a favor. The FBI springing for psychoanalysis, and no less for a junior consultant and convicted felon. It appears Mr. Caffrey has a way of getting people to care about him. It says in here the agent who arrested him _twice_, a Peter Burke, worked a deal to get him out of a 4 year prison sentence on some kind of work release. It seems your Neal Caffrey is a thief of hearts as well," Sam said with a wry smile.

It was the first time that night she had agreed with him.

"Susan has worked with a number of prisoners during her time at the FBI. She believes almost 90% have a history of childhood sexual or physical abuse. She thought Neal may have suffered similar problems in his childhood. After working together, I just don't see that in him. Forgeries or not, he has created some of the most beautiful pieces of art I have ever seen. It's hard to believe that kind of beauty could arise from the ruins of a childhood like that."

"Well, from what I have seen of his work it doesn't fit either." As Sam leafed through the file Miranda sent him, he seemed intrigued and puzzled. "Someone capable of creating beauty such as this and eliciting such care and concern in you, would most likely not have had that kind of soul crushing experience."

"But you know very well, people with damaged childhoods are capable of tremendous compartmentalization, they can create mental walls to hold in just about anything. I know there's something he's holding back from me. I need to know what kind of damage I am working with. If it's not abuse then what?"

"Miranda, you know the theory as well as I do, maybe better. I ought to know, I taught you. Why are you really here?"

"Because I trust you and right now I don't really trust myself."

"Could it be that you aren't sure if you can really trust Neal Caffrey either? It seems to me, what you really want to know is; can he love, is he capable of it."

Is loving unreasonably any better, she thought.

"Love is a process, it's a reciprocal process between us and those loving us. In that process, we learn to care about others, to truly value others. If it is short circuited or absent early on, it has profound consequences for a persons ability to trust, but you know that too. Why don't you trust what you know?"

"This isn't about me Sam."

"The hell it's not. You can't see this man clearly because he's too close to you and I don't mean physically. When you look at him you see yourself. OK, let's say Mr. Caffrey is repressing something, and that something is driving his behavior. Or worst case scenario, he has an undeveloped sense of conscience because of identifications stemming from a brutalized past. In any event, then you have to get him to uncover it. He has to trust you enough to let you in, and that's going to be complicated because of your relationship now. Can you be objective? You were ready to bite off my head at just the mention of his being a convicted felon".

"I wondered when we would get back to that."

"Facts are stubborn things, Miranda. Fact is, he is a criminal and a con man."

How could the man who had held her with such tenderness be capable of such deceit and duplicity, she thought. Had it all been an elaborate con? Now her tears began to fall in earnest.

"Miranda, what is it?" Sam said in a hushed tone.

"Sam, Neal was arrested earlier tonight for theft of the Degas."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_**Several Months Earlier. **_

Bounding up the stairs balancing two steaming cups of espresso, his fedora and Peter's past due report, Neal's normally sure footing gave way propelling him headlong into Hughes.

"Caffrey," Hughes bellowed. "Watch what you're doing!"

The office came to a screeching halt, as agents poured into the aisles seemingly from out of nowhere to gawk at his predicament, including agent Peter Burke. Hughes now covered in the pricey espresso stood looming over Neal, who was on hand and knee desperately trying to retrieve his coffee stained report and fedora.

"Oh my God, I am so _so_ sorry." he said breathlessly. He scrambled to his feet, pulled a vintage handkerchief from his pocket and started to dab at Hughes chest and face. The larger man grabbed hold of his wrist, bringing his impromptu cleaning attempts to an abrupt end.

"Stop, now" he growled.

"But…"

"Please," said a very annoyed and now somewhat frightened Hughes as Neal spotted more of the errant espresso on the inspector's pant leg and moved in dangerously close to his inseam. Quite oblivious to Hughes's growing panic, Neal was now completely obsessed with his mopping up operation.

"Sir, I know someone who can get those out, guaranteed to be good as new. " Hughes began backing up until he hit the wall.

"Neal," Peter's voice seemed to come out of nowhere. "Can I have a word? Now, in my office." Peter waved Neal into his office, and closed the door behind them. With Neal momentarily distracted, a visibly relieved Hughes managed to escape back into his office, safe for the moment from Caffrey's ministrations."

"Neal, anything going on I should know about?" said a bemused Peter.

"This is entirely all your fault Peter."

"My fault, OK this should be good. Just how am I responsible for you nearly putting Hughes in Intensive Care?"

"Intensive Care, do you think I should go back and check on him?"

"Don't press your luck, and don't evade my question. How exactly is this, my fault?"

"You know I hate shrinks."

"You saw Dr. Ford today. How did it go? Why didn't you say something?" Peter peppered him in his best interrogation style.

"Because….I haven't been yet. The appointment is later today. You seem more interested than me."

"I am not the one with the nightmares remember and you said..."

"I know, a promise is a promise," Neal said dejectedly. Peter was already sorry he had brought up the nightmares, hoping it wouldn't add to his partners jitters.

"So, what's got you so nervous? It's just talking, something you never seem to be at a lost for."

"I don't know, I saw a few psychiatrists as a kid and it never turned out well."

"Yeah, well you are not a kid now," but for the entire world he looked all of ten years old at that moment, Peter thought.

"So, when's the appointment?"

Neal looked at his watch, his eyes widened in mock horror.

"In twenty minutes, I'd better get a move on. You know what they say, first impressions."

"Well twinkle-toes, try to stay on your feet, and no espresso for the doctor."

"That's choice, Peter. Make fun, add to my already massive insecurities. No wonder I need mental help," he flashed a wide grin picked up his coffee stained fedora and rushed to the elevator.

Peter thought, he really is off his game today. He looked a mess, coffee stained clothes, hair tousled and dangerously close to being late. Neal was never late. Maybe this was a good thing, not having his game face on for this meeting.

Neal loved traveling New York on foot, enjoying the sights and sounds of his adopted city. Weaving perilously between and betwixt New Yorkers on lunch break was a rush. The holidays were rapidly approaching and the scent of money was in the air as eager shoppers crowded into the city, flush with cash. He no longer needed the money, now it was all about the game. The savvy Manhattan natives didn't make for easy marks. They provided just enough challenge to make it interesting. In a not too distant life, he would have practiced his skills at the two fingered lift or sandwich routine to stave off boredom. Life was far from boring these days, however.

Now he was hurtling toward some new psychiatrist who would be disapproving at best or worse yet, bound on having him give up his criminal ways. He liked Dr. Donahue and was surprised at his reaction when she said she would be leaving. The nightmares had stopped for the most part, and for that he was grateful. He wondered if she had had her baby. It was really true what they said about pregnant women glowing. His thought drifted to Kate and momentarily sadness filled his chest, he thought of the babies they would never have, he would never see her glow like that.

He kept moving. He hoped the new psychiatrist would play nice and stay on the surface like Susan. She was convinced he was the victim of some sort of childhood abuse, physical..possibly sexual. She quoted him the statistics in one session, that said over ninety percent of people serving time in prison were victims of abuse. She said the number would probably be higher, except that many people had blocked it out. It made him a more sympathetic figure to her, he guessed. He decided to go along, careful not to say anything that might disabuse her of her theory. He didn't care to have his sadness and grief inspected that closely. He had a distaste for pity, self or otherwise.

The blaring horn of a taxi pulled him from his ruminations and just in time. There it was 79th and Madison Avenue, he had made it with not a moment to spare. He adjusted his tie, ran his hand through his hair, and hoped the espresso stains wouldn't be too obvious. It was a typical Manhattan town home, the first level housed a small gallery featuring early Americana crafts. The second floor was the suite of offices belonging to Dr. Ford and the third and fourth floors appeared to be a private residence. He entered the outer office and settled in to one of two large comfortable chairs. The space was inviting, restrained but tastefully done. He sensed the hand of a high end interior designer in the placement and choices.

He began to feel more confident and relaxed as the surroundings met his sense of aesthetic decorum. As he scanned the surroundings in more detail, his eye fell on a small painting on the far wall. He thought it was a Degas, but wasn't sure. It called for closer inspection. He walked over to the painting, deftly removing it from the wall to get a closer look. To his surprise and great delight it turned out to be the real deal. Who would have an original Degas in their waiting room, he thought fingering the frame. The door to the consultation room opened at that precise moment and a voice said, "Hello, I am Dr. Miranda Ford, you must be Mr. Caffrey. You do know you have your hands on my Degas."

"Please, call me Neal. It's not what it looks like."

"It seldom is, Mr. Caffrey."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

They faced each other over the glass coffee table, strategically placed between two red leather seated armchairs.

"I hope you are comfortable," Miranda offered.

"Quite, thank you."

Neal gestured toward the table, "Isamu Noguci, originally designed in 1944, manufactured by Herman Miller from 1945 until 1972."

"You're a fan of coffee tables," I see."

"Well, the coffee table is grossly underrated. It's an extension of our daily lives that we forget about. It's a perfect hub to gather furniture and friends around and a staunch supporter of liquid refreshment."

"Speaking of refreshments, is that coffee on your shirt?"

He was hoping she wouldn't have spotted the stains, but it seemed nothing escaped the sharp eye of Dr. Miranda Ford.

"Glad you asked," he beamed. It's quite a long story. I was at the office when..."

"Mr. Caffrey, your _quite_ good at distraction."

"Sometimes," and please call me Neal. Is that my file? he pointed to the binder on the table. "I thought it would be bigger," he said with a bit of cheek.

"So did I," she said.

"Ouch," he winced in mock pain.

She pushed the file across the table in his direction. "I am quite sure you've already read it. What interests me, isn't in there."

"Seriously, have you looked in here? It's pretty comprehensive, right down to my shoe size."

"Will it tell me why you like to copy? You make copies for a living." She rattled off a list of Neal's forgeries: bonds, bronzes, sculptures, paintings.

"You've forged Renoir to Warhol. Ah... but no Degas, interesting. You know he was a master copier, much like you. You obviously have the intelligence and skills to be successful at any number of pursuits."

Suddenly, he felt the tug of his leash. It was just a matter of time before it came up, him being a thief, a convict; obviously not a proper pursuit. It took her all of five minutes to go there. It shouldn't bother him still, but it did. After all it was the life he had chosen, yet somehow it always felt like it had chosen him.

"Apparently talent and brains aren't enough to ensure success in the world. What's a guy to do, but turn to a life of crime." he said with his trademark smile.

"You think I am judging you?"

"It wouldn't be the first time. You know actually, by the time Degas was eighteen he was a registered copyist for the Louvre. He drew and painted copies after Michelangelo, Raphael and Titian. I wouldn't have pegged a woman as beautiful as you for a Degas fan." She was quite beautiful, although she worked hard to hide it he thought, behind her overly tailored clothing and her auburn hair pulled neatly back in place.

"Go on, she said.

"Well, he was roundly thought of as a misogynist, and some find his work cold and clinical. Once a woman famously asked him why he painted women so ugly and he said because women in general are ugly."

He immediately regretted the words and wished them back. He was angry. Angry that no matter how hard he tried, no mater what he sacrificed; in the end he always had to prove himself and then it was never enough. Even Peter didn't trust him completely and now the person he'd sent him to for help, sat judging him. He was in a business where emotion and sincerity needed to be hidden, but now his feelings were dangerously close to the surface and Miranda Ford was the target.

"Maybe Degas rejected the hypocrisy about formal beauty and wanted to understand what was beneath. The mechanisms of flesh and bone intrigued him. He wasn't afraid to look at women as they really are," she said gazing at him.

"Maybe despite my "beauty" you fear there is an ugliness underneath?"

He wasn't quite expecting that. Actually, he had no idea what judgment she had formed and it was unsettling. He was good at reading people, but she was different somehow.

"Maybe we have gotten off to a bad start." he said.

"I don't know; beauty, Degas, women and forgery. Sounds like an intriguing start to me. So Mr. Caffrey, what are your thoughts on beauty?

"Beauty has no evident usefulness and yet without it we could not endure our lives."

"Sigmund Freud," she said smiling.

"Big fan," he quipped.

She now began to understand why Susan took a more than passing interest in him. Who was this man who could so easily quote Degas, while referencing an arcane quote of Freud's? Maybe, he was right and she had judged him. Neal Caffrey was surprising and rarely was she surprised these days.

"I think Degas would have agreed with Freud and you. But still, it begs the question, why recreate someone else's work, when your so capable of creating your own? Why tell someone else's story?

"For the money," he smiled wryly. He didn't like the direction this was going. He was off his game, letting his emotions take him. This always led to trouble. It was easier to stay on the surface, give people what they expected from him.

"So you're going to play the criminal card?"

"I am sorry," he said feigning ignorance. The good doctor had just called him on his own game.

"That you copy solely for the money, simply makes you a thief."

"I don't believe I said it, in just that way."

"Well you said earlier, that when talent and brains aren't enough to ensure success, what's a guy to do but turn to crime. I think you might have just demonstrated that. Your telling yourself and me it's not about talent, brains and skill, it's just about the money... no need to look any further, case closed."

Her comment was completely unexpected; but before he could recover his practiced composure, the words just came pouring out, unfiltered, uncensored.

"You assume there's no talent in recreating a thing of beauty. Does it take less creativity, less imagination to think yourself into another artist's style, to imitate it, to give it life? If you can't tell the difference between two works of art, then is there a difference? Is it less beautiful?

"I don't doubt the beauty of what you do, that's not what I am trying to say. By capturing someone else's identity, someone else's history, it's as if the beauty you create passes through you and leaves no trace of you. Art is not just about beauty but transaction, the human transaction between the artist and those of us viewing it. It seems by copying you take yourself out of the equation. If anything, that's the crime."

"If that's my crime, is it so bad? Maybe, that's what I want, to be taken out of the equation. Only the things you feel are truly yours. Once something of beauty is created by you, it's... your possession. Once you possess something... then it can be lost, lost forever."

"And, that would be painful." Miranda said.

The simple statement shocked him in it's revelation, like something you might feel from coming out of a drugged sleep he thought. He was highly skilled at rearranging the truth, especially his own. It was a difficult game they were playing, every slip, every misstep could cost him dearly. He wasn't prepared to let anyone in. His heart was racing. Calm down he told himself, it must be time. Miranda looked over to the clock on the table next to him. He took in a deep breath, knowing in a moment he would be free.

"Our time is up for today, Mr. Caffrey. So, I'll see you tomorrow then?"

As he rose to stand, the room began to spin and he felt the bitter taste of bile as his stomach churned, suddenly he pitched forward. Miranda caught his arm, steadying him. Their faces were within inches. He had the impossibly bluest eyes she had ever seen. Despite his best efforts to conceal it though, she could see the panic hidden in them. She wanted to know what secrets they held and what had shaken that seemingly impenetrable confidence.

"Are you ill?" she said concerned.

"It's nothing, I had a dizzy spell. I've had them since I was a kid" he said as he collected himself, embarrassed by his body's sudden betrayal.

"Do you have them often?"

"No, I can't remember the last time I had one."

This was the second time in one day he'd lost his footing. The last thing he remembered before losing consciousness was Peter's joking admonishment, "try to stay on your feet."

() () ()

_"What are you doing darling?"_

_"I'm painting," came the reply from the small dark haired boy perched on the stool, his slender hands stained by the watercolors he had mixed together._

_"Are you going to show mommy?" She smiled at him, her wide, beautiful smile with a twinkle in her eyes, eyes that matched the ocean._

_"I am not finished. I have to sign it."_

_"Why of course, all great artist sign their work. How ever else would we know who made it."_

_The little boy, happy with his achievement, and his mother's smile eagerly painted his name at the bottom._

_"It's for your birthday," joyfully reaching his prize possession to his mother._

_"Oh my God sweetheart, this is so beautiful," her eyes beginning to glisten._

_"It's you mommy."_

_She leaned forward sweeping him up into her arms. He caressed her cheeks with paint tinged fingers, the paint on her face now matching that of his drawing. He giggled at his painting come to life, pressing his cheek against hers. They danced round and round as the small boys legs dangled in the air, until they dizzily collapsed with laughter onto the floor. He snuggled close to her. She pressed her lips to his hair, as one errant lock fell across his face. _

_"Let's find Daddy and show him, she beamed. The last one there is a rotten egg. The boy nodded in gleeful approval and they ran through the halls of the great house like wild things, finally bursting into his parents bedroom._

_"Jack, look what Neal made me for my birthday."_

_"Hey buddy, you did this?_

_"Mm hm, it's a painting." he looked up happily into the warm eyes of his father._

_" Great job, kiddo. Celia, this is scary good. It's beautiful, it's you, it's a nude; he laughed wrapping his arms around his wife's waist. Do you think it's OK letting him draw you in the nude?"_

_"Oh Jack, it's the most natural thing in the world. We were meant to look at each other she said, aren't we Neal ? With the sensibility of a budding artist, the boy nodded in excited agreement. _

_Jack bellowed with laughter, he was gratefully outnumbered . He opened his arms wide pulling Celia and Neal into his generous embrace, as all three tumbled laughing on to the bed. The little boy thought they would never be happier than they were at that moment._

() () ()

"Mr. Caffrey, Mr. Caffrey... Neal, are you OK?

His eyes fluttered and his mouth opened in a slow sigh," What... what happened?"

"You fainted."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Neal breezed in with his patented smile firmly in place, gingerly sitting a cup of freshly brewed espresso on the table in front of Miranda, along with an origami flower. Passing up the red armchair, he executed a perfect swan dive on to Dr. Ford's couch.

" I thought I'd save you the trouble of picking me up off the floor today. So, I am taking to the couch. Oh, those are for you."

"You thought you were trouble to me?"

"How can you be so focused this early in the morning, especially without caffeine?" He hadn't seen a coffee pot in either room, during his inspection the day before.

"Where's yours?" she inquired.

"I give up, he let out an exaggerated sigh. I had it on the way over."

"So, you got focused ahead of time, sort of a preemptive focusing."

"I bring you a gift, a mind sharpening gift at that, I am _on_ the couch and still you think I'm being resistant."

"OK, guilty as charged" she leaned over, and took the lid from the drink as the distinctive aroma of the bitter liquid filled the room. After taking a long satisfying swallow, she sat back in her chair and said "That's ... really good."

"A smile crossed Neal's face as he imagined Miranda with the cup to her lips. He'd take his victories one coffee cup at a time. Looking up at the ceiling from his place on the couch; he thought of making some comment about Freud, fainting couches and Victorian sensibilities, but then maybe not. He wanted her to like him, not the time to over do.

"Now that I've had my coffee, what do you think happened yesterday? You said your first dizzy spell happened when you were a kid, what exactly do you remember of it?

"I was away at school and I was waiting on Jack."

"And Jack is?"

"My older brother. It was the holidays and my first trip back home, in a while. Jack was coming to pick me up. I remember watching the clock, he was late. Almost everyone had cleared out and I was starting to worry something had happened. Then I saw him running up the walk. The room started spinning and next thing I remember, I was on the floor. Pretty much like yesterday."

"You said it was your first trip back home."

"Yeah, I was in boarding school... Rosemary Hall, so was Jack."

"Tell me about Jack."

"Jack Jr. actually, he was named after our father. He's 8 years older and I worshiped him, you know the whole kid brother thing. I haven't seen him in years, we don't ... talk. The first several years after he joined the Navy he pretty much shut me out and for the last four or five, I guess I have been returning the favor."

"So what happened between the two of you?"

"I don't think he's ever forgiven me for our parents death. Yeah... I know, that's not in the file."

() () ()

_Michael Brewer was not looking forward to this meeting. Neal had been expelled from yet another boarding school. He hated having to give Jack Jr. the news, but the kid insisted on being brought into all discussions concerning Neal. Although at seventeen he was only a boy himself, he had stepped into the parental role with a vengeance when Jack and Celia died. He had grown up overnight._

_It always startled him some to see Jack. He was the spitting image of his father except for the eyes, he had his mother's eyes, so did Neal._

_He was so like his father in other ways as well, a gifted athlete, tall, muscular, and outgoing. Jack was a charmer, with a gift of gab that would put his old man to shame. What made Jack Sr. the __best trial lawyer this side of the Rockies was his power of persuasion, he could convince a rock when he argued. It was scary how much they were alike, in that way._

_Neal was a different story. Aside from Celia's brilliant blue eyes, he and Jack Jr. couldn't be different. They were so unalike in temperament, Neal w_as a _brooder, lived in his head much like his mother, sensitive, imaginative, and impulsive. His IQ was off the charts but he flunked out of classes routinely, except for art classes. To a one, every teacher thought he was already a gifted artist at the age of nine; oftentimes the word prodigy would come up in the discussions. He definitely had his mother's artistic sensibility and maybe that made it harder on him. The therapists all said give him time, this was simply a reaction to losing his parents. It had been a year now and not much had changed._

_The one constant in all of this was the boys complete devotion to each other. They were like two sides of the same coin, they complemented each other perfectly. Money was no object, Jack and Celia had left the boys well off and as their friend and executor of the estate he would see to whatever they needed._

"_Hi, Mr. Brewer, am I early?"_

_"No Jack, come on in."_

_"The school called me about Neal, what are we going to do?_

_"The headmaster gave me a list of other schools, good schools. But he felt strongly that Neal might benefit from placement in a school that worked with troubled kids."_

_"You mean, like a loony bin? No, no, he's not crazy, he just... misses them."_

_"I know Jack, I miss them too. Calm down, it's just a recommendation."_

_Jack looked desolate. They had been here before, but he hadn't seen this look. Something else was troubling the teenager._

_"Jack, is there something else going on, I should know?"_

_"I got accepted into the Naval Academy. If I accept, I'll start after graduation."_

_"If you accept? Why wouldn't you accept, that's great news, Jack. Your father would be so proud, he loved being a Navy man."_

_"But what will happen to Neal? Who will take care of him?_

_"I will, with your help of course." Jack didn't seem particularly reassured._

_"I got to go, I'm picking him up and I'm going to be late. You know how he gets when I'm late, I'll call you Mr. Brewer."_

() () ()

Neal had grown quiet as the space between questions and answers had drawn out. It had been a long time since he thought of Jack. He hadn't taken his calls and refused his visits while he was in prison. He was angry with Moz for finding Jack and telling him what had happened, but then it was hard to stay angry with the little guy for long. His heart was always in the right place. He just couldn't bear to feel Jack's disappointment in him. Jack was serving his country and he was serving time.

"Neal, where are you, what are you thinking?"

"You called me, Neal."

"Yes, I did. I called you Neal yesterday, don't you remember?"

"Everything got kind of hazy, after I hit the floor."

"You said earlier that you thought you had been trouble to me. Maybe you thought you had been trouble to Jack, as well."

"You don't know Jack," he chuckled, clearly amused with himself.

"Touche, quite clever, but your right I don't know Jack. Tell me about him."

"Jack is a bona fide war hero, won the navy cross. He managed to rescue a school of Iraqi kids almost single hand-idly during his last tour of Fallujah. If you are in trouble Jack is the kind of guy you'd want on your team. I still have the news-clippings of when he was invited to the white house. It was a really big deal, he was interviewed on CNN, quite the celebrity."

"When did this happen?"

"About three years ago, I guess."

"So you were in prison at the time."

"How did we get to talking about Jack? I thought you were interested in my copying, beauty, Degas and all of that," there was tension in his voice.

"Actually, we were discussing loss; if I remember correctly. Just before your dizzy spell, you said if you possess something, it can be lost forever."

"Good thing I'm lying down then, I wouldn't want a repeat performance."

"Well, that's one way to protect yourself."

"Do I need protecting? I am curious, why did you take my case?"

"What do you imagine?"

"Well, I did some checking, you treat some pretty toney people: senators, the occasional movie star, all around movers and shakers.

"Go on."

"Undergraduate degree from Princeton, Harvard Medical School, John Hopkins's residency, child and adolescent fellow, that's a pretty impressive resume. I couldn't have forged a more compelling identity. Everything was golden until you hit a bit of a speed bump in the fellowship. I saw that you were involved in an investigation of the death of one Charles Sullivan."

"How did you get that information?" she said with irritation clearly evident in her voice.

"I'm FBI, we have resources, when we want to find something, we find it. You sound a little irritated?

The silence filling the room was deafening. Miranda felt her mouth dry a bit, it had been years since she was reminded of Charlie Sullivan.

"You are angry, aren't you? So you get to know my life, but I am not allowed to know yours. So how did Charles Sullivan come to commit suicide on your watch? It said he hanged himself."

"You can ask all the questions you like about my life, you just don't get to have the answers." She was caught off guard by his intrusion into her personal life, and her anger was evident. She needed to focus and figure out what was behind this well crafted volley.

"Maybe it was your intention to make me angry. What you would like is to distract us, redirect us from talking about you and Jack."

"Redirection, distraction, that's what I do. It looks like someone has been doing their homework, reading up on... what Cons 101, no..no Cons R US, Cons for Dummies."

"Maybe, I am not the only angry one here. Why wouldn't you take Jack's calls when you were in prison?"

"OK, I'll bite. Jack had enough on his plate. He was somewhere in Afghanistan saving people, he didn't need the distraction of worrying about me.."

"So you thought Jack would be worried about you.."

"Yes, he's my brother and he's worries about everyone."

"But he had time to go to the White House clearly and to take interviews with CNN, hobnobbing with celebrities."

"So, what are you saying, I am angry with my brother for serving his country, putting his life on the line. For God's sake he was saving children. Do you think I begrudge him that. Tell me what you really think of me."

"I am more interested in what your thinking."

"Jack, took care of me when our parents died. He was always there for me. I didn't make things easy for him. But no matter how I screwed up, he was always there. I could depend on him."

" Going to prison was a pretty big screw up."

" He couldn't devote his entire life to taking care of me, cleaning up my messes."

"But it must have been painful when he shut you out, when he wasn't there to help. Maybe it angered you and hurt you, so you "returned the favor" and shut him out when he tried to reach out to you."

"How could I expect... anything more from Jack, when I had messed up so colossally. The life I lived was contrary to everything he believed in, his voice began to waver. I couldn't ... I don't blame him for turning away."

"Maybe you felt things would have been different for you, if Jack had remained in your life. Maybe he could have saved you, like he saved those Iraqi children?"

The truth of her statement was so unnerving, yet so welcomed as he felt the tension in his chest begin to release.

"You asked me why I took your case. I think you might be worried that if you come to depend on me like Jack, that I might turn away at some point and leave you too. That I won't be there for you when you need me. You mentioned the toney people I treat, celebrities and movers and shakers. It's like I move in the same crowd as Jack, with people like Jack. I think it's interesting that you brought up Charles Sullivan, I'm sure you know that he was a kid in juvenile detention when I worked with him."

"Yes, it did get my attention. I guessed it was some sort of pro bono work."

I think you want to be sure of my commitment to you. You want to know if I can work with someone like you, someone who screwed up and made a mess of things, a confidence man, a thief. You wanted to know if I failed Charles Sullivan?"

"Did you? Before she could reply, he offered "I know your not going to answer that." He knew he had angered her, and as compelling and satisfying as it was in the moment, it wasn't what he really wanted from her. After several moments more silence, he asked "So why are you taking my case?"

"I am taking your case because I want to help you understand what all of these things mean to you, to help you discover your own history, your own truth...if you want me to."

He felt her curiosity and interest drawn around him like a net. It had been so long since anyone wanted to know him, without anything in return.

What do you want? she said softly.

Without a moments hesitation he just knew, he wanted to be comforted and soothed, he wanted the lights of his parents home, his home, to be turned on again. He wanted Miranda Ford to hear him without speaking.

"I don't know," he lied; hoping this would be the last time he would have to con her.

"I am afraid our hour is up, I'll see you tomorrow then."

"It's a date." he smiled.

As he closed the door, Miranda took in a deep breath and slowly let it out, unsure where this journey was leading. She cradled the lilac origami flower in the palm of her hand, as she watched Neal Caffrey from her window cross Madison and fade into the night.

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own White Collar or any of it's characters.

The bullpen was buzzing with energy and anticipation, as Peter emerged from Hughes's office with a look of pure satisfaction. He motioned everyone over, brandishing a grey FBI folder overhead.

"We did it, guys. It's official, our team has the highest case closure in the Bureau; and this is the case that took us over the top."

A round of applause and cheers went up from the assembled group; Diana put her arm around Neal, as Jones gave the agent across from him an energetic fist bump. This had been an especially tough case to break, circulating through the Bureau for well over a year. Several high profile teams had met with little success in cracking it. It was a Bureau priority and an obvious feather in Hughes's cap for bringing it in. Neal, along with his fellow comrades, was basking in the moment when the all too familiar sound shook him from his reverie.

"Caffrey!"

What now he thought, making his way through the crowd and up the stairs to Peter's office.

"Peter... you have that look. Whatever it is, I didn't do it."

"Can't I just request a word with you, without it being the third degree? What look?" he said quizzically.

Neal just sighed, and took a seat across from his boss.

"I can't believe we pulled that one off. I just wanted to tell you, nice work. We couldn't have done it without you Neal, your analysis of those encoded engravings was key to solving the case. Hughes was especially impressed, you did good."

Never one to let an opportunity slip by him, he beamed "Do you think that might translate into my getting off a little early tonight?"

"Don't go getting a big head over this, there is still a lot of work to be done here. What... do you have a date or something?"

"Not exactly."

"Well, we were all planning to meet up at Angelo's for drinks after work, my treat."

"I'm sorry, but I'll have to take a rain-check."

"This must be a special lady," Peter smiled.

"Before you embarrass yourself, I have an appointment with Dr. Ford."

"Oh right, how's that going; you've been pretty tight lipped about therapy."

"It's good, so... is that a yes to my leaving early?"

Peter smiled to himself. Something had changed about Neal, not certain what yet; but there was a distinct difference. Oh sure, Neal would be Neal, but this was different. He was maddeningly confident, infuriatingly self assured, but this felt authentic. The anxious insecurity living just beneath that polished surface, the unrelenting energy that seemed to infuse his every move had been replaced by a stillness, a quiet and self contained quality. It was as if he was moving and standing still all at once; genuine confidence looked good on him.

"Sure, I'll pick you up in the morning. Don't be late."

()()()()()()()()

Miranda was at her desk when Simon came up behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders, stroking her neck. They both noticed her muscles tense, as she responded to his touch. As he stood behind her, he couldn't help but see the virtual origami flower garden that had sprung up on her writing table. Intrigued, he wondered who was sending his wife such exquisite flowers.

"Miranda, I have a meeting with the Dukes tonight. I thought we might have an early supper first, why don't you plan for 7:00pm."

"I am sorry Simon, but I have work tonight."

"You've been working late quite a bit recently. Is it the new case you took, can't you reschedule?"

"Yes, and no." The abruptness of her reply caught Simon by surprise. He was used to more measured responses from her and also used to taking her compliance for granted.

"I ran into Mike and Susan Donahue at the patron's auction last week. She said this new patient of yours worked for the FBI and was a convicted bond forger," clearly wanting more of a response from her now.

"Susan really should be more careful, violations of patient confidentiality are serious matters." Miranda could feel him maneuvering her, this was an old and tired dance between them designed to control and manipulate her into doing his bidding.

"When did you get so touchy? he continued massaging her shoulders. Is it true? Don't you think we should have discussed this before you brought someone like this into our home?"

"You mean my office. I didn't think I had to get your permission to take on a patient."

"You know very well what I am talking about and you never complained before when I helped you with patient referrals."

"I am not going to do this with you tonight, Simon. She stood and walked to the window,"I need to get ready."

He nodded politely, as a small smile curved his thin bottom lip. She knew this was far from over, but for now she found herself more preoccupied with her next client, Neal Caffrey.

Their meetings were lively, suffused with laughter and conversations on poetry, art and possibility. Miranda felt more alive than she had in years. She looked forward to her sessions with Neal. Not only because of the playful banter, uncommon wit and imagination he brought to bear in their explorations, but because she was making a difference. It may have been arrogant and narcissistic, but she felt uniquely suited to help him unravel the conflicts haunting him, eating away at the fabric of that beautiful soul. This is what she had felt all those years ago when she decided to do this work. Lost in her thoughts, she barely heard him enter as she looked up to see Neal standing in the hallway.

"Your awfully quiet today. Where are you?"

"Just a little tired," he said trying to mask the sadness in his voice.

His melancholy wasn't lost on Miranda. Neal Caffrey was energy personified. However, the man on her couch today was painfully still.

"We've been working a really difficult case, burning the midnight oil. Finally caught a break and got it solved today. Peter and the team are out celebrating as we speak."

"So...you missed the celebration to be here. Any regrets?"

"No, should I? I really wasn't in the mood anyway, I haven't been sleeping all that well."

"Go on."

"My nightmares have come back. I should have known. Mozzie told me once, happy endings aren't for guys like me. I didn't want to believe it, but happiness may not be in the cards for me."

"Were you happy about solving the case?"

"Yeah, it was great. I felt trusted and needed by the team, in a way I hadn't before. It made me want to work harder. I didn't mind putting in the extra time, at the end of the day I was exhausted and exhilarated all at once, if that makes any sense. Peter told me even Hughes's was impressed with the work I did. I don't know, I've just felt happier lately, can't explain it."

"Tell me about the nightmares?"

"Their basically the same, someone I love disappears or is killed and I am powerless to help them."

"Do you recall who was in the dream?"

"It was a woman, but I couldn't make out her face. A building was collapsing, and I was trying to guide her to safety. She was behind me and when I turned to take her hand, the floor gave way and she fell. I must have woke up then, I don't remember anything else."

"What do you make of it, the dream?"

"It's the same as the others, but usually it's someone I know... someone I recognize.. Kate, Alex, Peter."

"So, why is this woman a mystery to you?"

"It sounds like you have a theory. Seriously, are you going to make me play Clue?"

"No, it occurs to me that I am behind you, in these sessions you don't normally see my face. Am I the woman in your dream?"

"It makes sense, but I think of you rescuing me more than the other way around."

With that revelation Neal fell silent. Something was changing in this room, Miranda Ford had proved a worthy match. She was fierce and impossibly interested in him, whoever that was. She had seeded him with a hope that some order could come from the chaos within him. Yet he felt some shame, because something else was stirring in him. He felt a yearning, a closeness with her he had never experienced with anyone else. He ached to turn around and tell her how much she meant to him. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind.

"Why would I put you in danger? I would never want to hurt you," he said, his voice filling with emotion.

"You said happiness was transient, that it wasn't in the cards for you. If you become comfortable here, happy here; then it might stir your anxiety of losing the things and people you value and love. I think you are afraid of losing me, like Kate or Peter. Freud thought that we repeat an action ,or dream in this case, as a way to gain mastery. He called it a repetition compulsion."

"I am not sure I follow."

"Well you have the dream over and over with the hope that the outcome will be different, that this time you will save them, they won't disappear."

"Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, isn't that the definition of insanity. Freud's got to come up with a better system, this clearly sucks," he joked trying to regain his equilibrium.

Miranda smiled, "It can be maddening, if it's your only defense against what's troubling you."

"Actually I have been feeling that something is changing. The day of the nightmare, I picked up art supplies. I actually wanted to paint, not for a score or a case, but for me."

"Do you think it's a coincidence that the nightmares return just as you are experiencing success at work, in treatment and a renewed interest in your art?"

"If I've learned anything here, there are no coincidences."

"I think it's hard for you to let your self be happy, you want happiness but you are afraid of it at the same time. The closer we get to uncovering the source of your fears, the more you cling to the old ways of dealing with them. The painting is a good example of that."

"But I am not afraid to paint. I paint all the time as part of my deal with the FBI and I never feel anxious or afraid."

"You mean you copy as part of your deal. You forge and duplicate paintings. You said you were feeling happy and you wanted to paint for yourself, and that very night is when the nightmares returned. If you doubt Freud's system, maybe you might have more faith in a fellow artist."

"Don't tell me, Degas," he groaned.

"The one and only. I don't know why you are so defensive when it comes to him."

"Maybe I am jealous, you do have the guy hanging in your waiting room. That's pretty stiff competition, even for a renowned copier such as myself."

"Can you say more about your jealousy?"

"No," determined not to go there, he chuckled " I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but tell me your theory on Degas."

"Degas said, It's one thing to copy what one sees... but it is much better to draw what can only be seen in ones memory. Art is a transformation where imagination collaborates with memory. For him one could not be an artist without access to their memories. I know this is a lot to process, but I think the return of your nightmares is progress. I think we are getting closer to understanding what's been troubling you."

"I am glad you can see it, really. Because from where I sit, excuse me lay, I don't have a clue."

"I am sorry Neal, but our time is up for tonight. We will talk more tomorrow."

()()()()()()

He needed more time to absorb all this. His head was spinning as he got home, maybe a drink would help. Making his way to the kitchenette, his eyes fell on the easel set up in the corner. He wasn't sure how much time had elapsed as he took a deep breath, wiped the paint from his hands and stepped back from the canvas. The brush strokes of colors blended and coalesced in his newly created work with a lucidity and power that was part beauty and part truth. However instead of satisfaction, it was danger he was feeling. He was trying to hold onto his resolve to complete the work, but his fingers froze at the edge of the canvas. The room seemed to close about him as he felt gripped by panic.

His palette blurred and everything was off kilter. He couldn't understand why this was happening again, especially not now with everything he had learned tonight. Adrenaline was coursing through his body as he feverishly attacked the canvas, with the sudden sweeps of his arm every movement replaced what had gone before, until not a trace of his effort remained. It was if he was someone else, like these characters possessed of automatic writing. Somehow he had transformed his original work into an exact replica of the Degas hanging outside Miranda's office. He paced the wooden floor of his apartment in despair. A knock at the door was a welcomed relief.

"Good evening Neal. I hope I am not disturbing you, but you have been up here for hours now pacing the floor non stop. I was a little worried." June looked over her shoulder and saw the easel, as she entered his apartment.

"That's lovely, it's a Degas isn't it ?" She knew it spelled trouble. peter had explained the terms of Neal's release to her. He was prohibited from the reproduction of any art work unless expressly approved by the Bureau.

"Oh dear, listen whenever Byron was trying to figure something out, he would pace the floor like a caged animal. You so remind me of him. It's a lovely night out, some fresh air might do you a world of good. It always helped Byron. Take a walk and clear your head. You might find you feel better, once you've had some time to reflect and think things over. Here, I made you a snack for later. With all that pacing I am sure you'll have worked up quite an appetite." She kissed him softly on the cheek and wrapped her arms around him. He relaxed into her embrace as he felt the tension release from his body. "I don't deserve June," he thought.

Maybe she was right, the night air might cool the raging furnace in his head. What was it that Miranda saw so clearly, and that evaded him so completely tonight. If only he could talk to her, it would all make sense he thought. He wrapped the painting and walked out the door. The lights were still on in Miranda's office. As he reached the waiting room, his mind began to clear and he thought better of his rash decision to come there. Surely it could wait until their next session, the voice of reason echoed in his head. Exhausted, he dropped into the waiting room chair, trying to collect himself. A flyer on the table next to him caught his attention. It was from the Met, a calender of their upcoming events. Who should be front and center but his old friend and nemesis, Degas. Apparently, the Met was starting the fall season tomorrow with a retrospective of Degas. Someone must have left it for Miranda, he figured. So immersed in thought, he hadn't noticed the man standing off in the shadows.

Simon had returned late from his dinner with the Dukes. He watched the younger man with mistrustful eyes, certain of his criminal intentions. He wasn't at all what he had expected, however.

As Neal held the flyer in his hands, he could hear Miranda's voice in his head, clear and true, "It's not copies I want from you, but the truth." He spread the flyer out before him and began to write. When done, he artfully crafted it into a delicate origami flower and placed it atop the package, leaving both behind as he exited.

When certain Neal was gone, Simon entered his wife's waiting room. Slowly and meticulously he unfolded the flower, reading its content. In the dark, his eyes shined brightly with the look of a predator.

TBC

**Author's notes**

Much thanks to all of you who have taken the time to review this story, as well as those who have added me to their story favorites and alerts. I truly appreciate your kind comments and words of encouragement. Special thanks to UltraCape for her generous support. Unexpected work and a wicked case of the flu has had me out of commission lately, I hope to have the next few chapters up more timely. I am so looking forward to tonight's premiere. Take good care and be well.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Simon arrived late from his dinner meeting, faintly smelling of alcohol. He was nothing, if not meticulously controlled; his indulgence surprised her. His face and demeanor remained carefully arranged as he approached her. When they first met, she attributed it to a mark of refinement. Now she thought it might be due to cruelty. She wondered if he ever loved her, that he liked her even was highly in doubt these days. He loved the idea of her for sure, fixing her, rearranging her; as he did all his highly prized possessions.

"Why, I am surprised you are waiting up for me?" he said dispassionately.

"Is it so shocking, I would be worried about you."

He retreated into the bathroom, emerging moments later in his bedclothes.

"I think I'll sleep in the other bedroom tonight, you've been tossing in your sleep lately. And by the way, someone left this on our stoop," he held the origami flower out to her.

A smile crossed her face as she instantly recognized Neal's handiwork.

"It seems you have a secret admirer," he said barely containing the scorn and condescension in which he was so practiced. They said goodnight without ever looking at each other.

She walked over to the picture window where she could see her pale reflection. The city was resplendent like a jewel in the moonlight. The beauty of the burning lights played over her skin awakening memories of when she felt desire in that room, a room that now felt cold and filled with ugly compromises. Her thoughts carried her back to that first meeting with Neal Caffrey and the delicate origami flower he left behind. Since then, he had given her fuchsia lilies, magenta orchids and roses in bud and in bloom. She held the flower in her palm, it 's petals so tightly folded; wondering if like those rare flowers that only open in moonlight it would reveal an answer to her dilemma. Turning it over she saw a small marking that said pull.. and then with the smallest of gestures it unfolded like magic.

" Dear Miranda, meet me at the Met tomorrow. You were right, art and deception can't co exist. I think I've figured something out. I'll show you tomorrow, but I want you to meet someone first. Please, come. Love, Neal."

You are insane she thought, if you cross this threshold you will never get back.

()()()()()()()()()

It was her first time seeing him outside the office. Standing with his back to her, he still managed to exude an elegance and confidence that was intoxicating. She approached him from behind, whispering in his ear, "What's a nice art thief like you doing in a place like this?"

"Field work," he said never missing a beat.

"Do you see something you like?"

"Why doctor if I didn't know better, I'd think that was an invitation..."

She interrupted him "I believe I do have an invitation to lunch," cradling the origami flower in her outstretched hand.

"I believe you do," he said smiling. But first I want to show you something." He took her hand and led her to a corner of the gallery.

"This is Ingress, she said. A very beautiful Ingress to be sure, but I thought we were here for the Degas collection."

"Degas admired Ingress, probably more than any other artist. Dr. Miranda Ford, I'd like you to make the acquaintance of Madame Jacques- Louis LeBlanc," Neal said with a flourish. Ingres was captivated by Madame LeBlanc.. and it shows in his portrait of her. It is said that Degas was so taken with the beauty of this piece that as an old man, crippled and blind he asked to be taken to it so that he could feel the painting beneath his fingers. So you see, Degas did see the beauty of women. If you promise not to tell, I'll reveal one of my most closely guarded secrets."

Miranda smiled and said "Cross my heart and hope to die."

"I know this is totally taboo, but when no one is around I run my hands over her like this," his hand gingerly gliding over the painting. Then he took Miranda's hand in his and ever so gently moved it across the painting. Now, you, Degas and I are connected, witnesses to the enduring nature of beauty."

Miranda was caught off guard by the feeling that welled up in her, and struggled to hold back her tears. As she tried to turn away, Neal gently wiped her cheek, his hand lingering lightly. .

"I am famished," she said "and _you_ promised me lunch."

"I could eat."

"Well then, I know the perfect place."

It was a beautiful autumn day, and the city was ablaze with energy. They could feel the pulse of Manhattan as they walked the city streets. Filled with a million stories and a million people, suddenly it felt like a small town only they inhabited. In no time, they found themselves outside the Channing Museum.

"Two museums in one day," he almost gasped with excitement. The Channing has the best lunches, the oyster stew is to die for, his eyes shinning brightly. This must be my lucky day."

"Luck has nothing to do with this, my dear boy," she said confidently.

"I like the sound of that," as he took her arm.

They entered the museum and made their way to the small dinning area. The hostess showed them to a small table in the rear overlooking the walled in Japanese garden. They talked happily about art, politics, music, Mozart to JAY- Z. Ever the gifted raconteur, Neal spun one glorious and more absolutely absurd story than the next. His good humor and excitement was infectious. Miranda sat with her elbows on the table delighted and entranced. When they thought they couldn't laugh any more, they looked into each other eyes and fell deeper and deeper into fits of hysterical laughter, supported by a constant supply of wine. Unfortunately, all good things had to come to an end; "Neal, I haven't had this much fun in I don't know when, but I have to get back to work."

"Stay, Neal pleaded. There are a 100 more museums to explore and no one likes a quitter. Peter's going to kill me if I don't report back, but I'll die a happy man. Come on, when was the last time you played hooky?"

"I never played hooky."

"Well then you are long overdue. Please please," doing his best puppy dog impersonation.

"OK, you had me at Peter's going to kill you. You are a bad influence, Mr. Caffrey." As Miranda placed a call to her office, a museum staffer passed by.

"Mrs. Channing, good to see you. Is Mr. Channing here?"

"No Simon is out of town on business, he won't be back until tomorrow." As he walked away, Neal looked at her quizzically.

"Yes, the Channing is owned by Simon's family and he is the curator here."

"Your husband is Simon Channing, _the_ Simon Channing."

"I kept my maiden name, for professional purposes."

"You kept your maiden name."

"Are you going to repeat everything I say?"

"My psychiatrist says I have a repetition compulsion. She also said….."

Interrupting him in mid sentence, she placed her fingers over his lips leaned in and said "Shut up. We keep an apartment upstairs, why don't we carry on this discussion in not such a public place."

He thought to himself, this really is my lucky day.

The elevator opened on the top floor and they walked to the apartment. Her heart was racing, as she felt a stirring she hadn't experienced in such a long time. She fumbled with the keys her hands shaking unexpectedly.

"Let me help you with that," he said sliding his hand over hers and deftly unlocking the door. She couldn't recall the last time she had been in the apartment. It was more Simon's then hers. Simon always kept it well stocked and ready at a moment's notice for clients he brought there.

"I'll make us a drink" Neal said and walked over to the bar. He sat the drinks down on the table and kissed her, his lips soft,warm and sweet with the taste of Merlot. She excused herself and headed off to the bathroom, "I'm going to freshen up a bit."

She stood looking at herself in the mirror. It had been 20 years since she was with another man. She studied her face, every line and bit of flesh that had accumulated over time. Would he find her attractive, suddenly she felt weighted down by all her successes and fears.

He was lying on the bed when she finally entered; his clothes neatly arranged on the adjoining chair. There was no trace of the boyish demeanor she first glimpsed in the office. He was gazing at her, quiet and contained. Lying on his side a strand of chestnut hair fell forward across that extraordinary face. His body was lean, taut and muscular. He was so beautiful. She felt dizzy with a mixture of desire and shame. She didn't want to go to him, but she did.

"Get undressed," he whispered.

Her hands trembled slightly as she tried unbuttoning her shirt, each pearl button a roadblock in her path to pleasure, trapping her.

"I can't"

"Yes, you can," he said serenely confident. "Here, let me," he stood and approached her. His manner was so completely unselfconscious, how he looked at her was unnerving in its expectancy.

"These hands have slipped off trickier locks", he said with a sly smile while making quick work of the recalcitrant buttons. Her blouse floated to the ground, still warm from the heat of her now naked body.

"Neal, I am forty five years old. I haven't been with another man in …."

"Shh…" He pressed his index finger over her lips and whispered, "Shut up."

His lips grazed her breasts as he drew her down onto him. He pulled her head back, his eyes moving slowly over her body. There was no refuge from his eyes, they almost seemed to touch her. Those eyes were an aberration of nature, incandescent blue, reflective as mirrors, where she could see her long forgotten dreams. Every trace of restraint she might have felt, vanished.

"You are exquisite," he said. He wanted to give himself over to her completely. He wanted to discover her, chart her hidden places, map a port of call he and only he alone knew. He wanted to know every secret and every mystery her body held. He hadn't felt this way about anyone other than Kate, but it was different this time. There was such tension between them , shared and unexpected. He felt a wave of heat as his body became wet with a thin layer of sweat. In the darkness, he shone as if he had a fever.

Her skin was soft and supple, as he pressed her body against his, his mouth on hers. What Degas had tried to capture he held in his hands. He wanted to tell her everything, but tonight would be a conversation of bodies. Words would come later.. It was such a long time since he had let anyone in, let anyone know him, let himself be found.

He kissed her cheek as if it tasted like a rare wine, while slowly drawing his hand along the soft angled skin inside her thigh. For a moment she lost all equilibrium. He placed her hands on his chest to steady her. The beating of his heart, resonating through muscle and blood echoed in her brain as he moved inside her. He touched her and she touched him, hands and knees, arms and legs intertwined, rising and falling with every pulse beat. His body was singing with electricity, like a transducer converting flesh and bone into energy. He knew instinctively when she needed gentleness and when she yearned to hurt under the weight of his body. The fierceness of how their bodies collided, the exquisite torment took her breath away. She pulled back almost reflexively.. He held her fast.

"No consequences," he whispered and her whisper came back, "only truth."

She twisted and kneaded her hands through his hair, pulling him in close, rocking against his body as he moaned in harmony with her movement. Unable to hold back any longer, he gave into the pleasure surging through his body. She felt herself shake, almost shake apart from the force generating between them. She had forgotten what it was like to lose control so completely, to be so totally free. He so accustomed to fear had finally found trust. The world fell away. They made love in that moment in that time and space, until spent with joyful exhaustion.

She lost track of time, unable to remember how long she lay in his arms. He turned and rested his head in the hollow of her arm, closing his eyes. She had her hand on the small of his back, tracing imaginary circles in the hollows and crevices of muscle and bone as her mind began to clear. She stopped momentarily taking in the scene; he turned to look at her and sighed "Don't stop."

She felt vital, suffused with a beauty she had long ago traded for security. If she could only stay like this, lie like this every night of their lives.. He had given her such pleasure, pleasure that filled the empty spaces of compromise and missed opportunity. She thought she could be emptied of her history. His life was stretching out before him now. She could see it, even if he couldn't yet, a future so filled with promise. As he lay sleeping , his head on her chest and ear over her heart, misery washed over her like a tidal flood. It was not in her to deny him the chance that was now in his grasp. Her heart literally ached as it tried keeping pace with the inescapable thought tearing at her brain.. This had to end, the only question was, how badly.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 6

Neal woke with an unearthly feeling of contentment, nestled in the warm contours of Miranda's body. He put his arms about her so that he was laying across her body, and whispered "Say you love me, just a little." He felt her body tense beneath him.

"Hey, are you Ok?

"Neal, what are we doing?" she said looking into eyes.

"Having mind altering sex?" he smiled.

"I am serious," she said. He knew that tone well, it always preceded some challenge to his hard won perception of reality. He rolled over and pushed himself up to the top of the bed, laid his head against the board and let out a deep breath.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm just... her voiice wavering. I'm a married woman and you're my patient."

"You're naked and I'm naked. I think we are way past doctor patient relationship here. Is it Simon?"

"Yes, no... I...it's complicated."

"Go on, he said acknowledging her surprise at the purloined phrase. He quickly offered "It's a little something I picked up in therapy to move the process along." He saw a small smile come across her face and it eased the anxiety creeping into his chest.

"Neal, you and me, that changes everything. I'm not in love with Simon. I'm not sure if I've ever been in love with him. If he loves me, it's the idea of me he loves. He doesn't know me."

"Then he doesn't deserve you."

"To be fair, I'm not the easiest person to get to know. When my patient Charlie, the one you investigated, committed suicide; Simon was there for me. He loves being in control, taking charge and fixing things and I so desperately needed things to be fixed. It was so easy depending on him."

"What happened to Charlie?"

"He was just a kid. He had gotten into some trouble and had a juvenile record. I was finishing up my child and adolescent fellowship, and freshly assigned to the youth center. The guy who ran it was an ass, but I needed a good recommendation to keep my "flawless" record intact. So, I kept my nose to the grindstone, basically avoiding him and doing what it took. He despised those kids. Charlie presented with a bucketful of incoherent symptoms, clearly things he made up, but I could see how scared he was. I thought he was being abused by some of the older, harder kids; victims creating more victims."

She sighed and fell silent for a long time. Neal gently squeezed her shoulder, and waited for her to find the right moment to go on.

"Dr. Harold thought he was faking. Of course he was faking, it was plain to anyone who wanted to take the time. I asked if we could have him transferred off the unit, for more evaluation. Thought if I could get him alone, he might open up to me and tell me what was going on with him. Harold wouldn't hear of it, accused me of wasting the state and taxpayer's money. I should have put up more of a fight, been a real advocate for Charlie, but in the end I was more preoccupied with my career. A week later we got the news; Charlie had hanged himself in the showers."

"It wasn't your fault Miranda, you were trying to help him." he said softly.

"I know that now, but it stays with me, you know. I got into therapy shortly after that and it saved me. It was about the time I met Simon. He was already successful, in a world that was so removed from mine. He built all of this for me, the practice, the clients; I owe him so much."

Neal was silent, his eyes closed as he listened.

"I am sorry to go on like this, Neal. I am sure this isn't what you had in mind when you invited me for lunch."

"It is actually, I want to know you. It's just that I could have been Charlie. After Jack started the Naval Academy, Mr. Brewer was my primary guardian. I didn't help him much. I got tossed out of every boarding school on the east coast and a few abroad too. Mr. Brewer invested most of my parent's estate in the market and a big chunk in a little company called Enron. When everything crashed and went to hell, most of the estate was lost. I don't think he ever forgave himself, he was my dad's best friend and promised he would take care of me and Jack after the car crash. He died a year later, probably from grief."

Miranda pushed up closer to Neal, so that she was siting next to him, their shoulders touching.

"I moved around from relative to relative, when the money was exhausted I ended up in foster care. Not being the charming fellow I am today, I didn't make it through most of my placements. When I was sixteen, I got emancipated from the state, and well the rest is history."

"Were you ever in juvenile detention?"

"No, I was lucky. The first time I went to jail, was when Peter caught me. Peter was my longest running relationship. It's ironic, no one since Jack or Mr. Brewer had ever taken that much interest in me, too bad it was for all the wrong reasons."

"Neal, I am so sorry you were so alone, for so long."

"It doesn't have to be that way now," he said gently placing his hand on hers.

"You deserve so much more," she said moving her hand away. He could see the pain in her eyes.

"I have what I want. Don't do this Miranda, he said his eyes searching hers. Tell me you don't feel the same way I feel?"

She couldn't bring herself to look at him, afraid of what her answer would be.

"Neal, I have to go. Simon is coming in tonight and I promised I'd pick him up at the airport.

"Promise me, you won't make any decisions until we talk," he said.

"I promise."

() () ()

Neal had been trying to reach Peter for thirty minutes now, his messages going straight to voice mail. This was so unlike Peter, he was worried. However, he was glad for a distraction from the turmoil he felt with Miranda. Glad to be home, he opened the door to his apartment. He was taken a back by the familiar figure standing in his living room.

"Peter, what are you doing here?" he hadn't noticed the near panic on his friend's face.

"Neal, where were you?"

"I was... not wanting to go into the details of his relationship with Miranda just yet, he hesitated momentarily.

"Don't, don't do this Neal. Listen, we only have a few minutes before the Marshals arrive. Did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Neal, this is not the time."

"Peter, I don't know what you are talking about. You're scaring me."

"You should be scared. Simon Channing filed a complaint with the NYPD earlier today. It says you stole a painting from his wife's office, along with several other pieces from the Channing Museum.

"What!" Peter, I didn't do this."

"OK, I'm going to trust that your telling me the truth on this, Hughes has pulled some strings until we can get to the bottom of this. But for right now, your under the jurisdiction of NYPD., until the paper work clears and we get you back under the Bureau's..." Before he could finish, Neal's door was thrown open and a swarm of armed policeman burst in.

"Neal Caffrey, you are under arrest."

() () ()

Miranda's heart was racing and her mouth dry as sand. She felt claustrophobic, as if all the fears, pain and emotion of every single person who sat in that office before her were crammed into that space, pressing on her, squeezing the air out of her lungs. She told herself, breathe.

"Miranda, are you alright. Would you like a glass of water?" Sam said with obvious concern.

"I'll be Ok, thanks Sam."

"Do you think he stole the painting?"

"I don't know what to think, I can't think. I've always relied on my mind, been so afraid to follow my heart. My mind tells me it's possible. He's done things, broken the law. He's had tremendous loss, he spent a lifetime concealing himself, putting up firewalls to protect himself. You know better than anyone, the capacity the human mind has to compartmentalize. Could Neal Caffrey have stolen the Degas and crafted and elaborate con job, my mind tells me yes. But, my heart won't let me believe it."

"Miranda, if there's anything this work shows us, it's that you can't separate your heart from your mind, none of us can and hope to be whole. You believe in Neal Caffrey and I believe in you. The only way to know what's in his heart and in his mind kiddo, is to help him make the connection. He needs you to help him uncover whatever it is he is feeling, then he will know and so will you. You have a gift. If you truly want to help, be his psychiatrist."


	8. Chapter 8

The prison guard escorted Neal to the bare table where Miranda sat anxiously, waiting for some response. He took a seat across from her, his clenched hands placed on the table in front of him. Those brilliant blue eyes now clouded by betrayal and confusion locked onto hers.

"You come to see if I hung myself?" he could barely control the anger churning in his chest, battling with his lungs for breath.

"I know you must be feeling... confused and..."

"Cut the crap Miranda, what do you want?"

"I want to help you," she placed her hand on his.

"Don't," he pulled his hand back, stood and moved away from her.

"Sit down, Caffrey," the voice of the guard echoed in the sparsely furnished holding cell, as he motioned menacingly toward the younger man.

Her heart broke, as she watched helplessly; seeing him caged like an animal, stripped bare and so vulnerable.

"Tell me just one thing, was any of it real?" his voice was raw with emotion.

She couldn't bring herself to look into his eyes, her own confusion and doubts threatening her borrowed resolve. She could hear Sam's voice playing through her head, "be his psychiatrist." The heart pounding in her chest suddenly came to heel. If time could be measured in heartbeats, then it seemed an eternity before she could summon up the words to speak.

"It meant everything to me and nothing to you, and I am the con man?" Neal asked after her brief hesitation.

"Neal, please. I know you are angry and confused, but you have to listen to me."

"Not this time, Miranda. You said I always have a choice. Guard, take me back to my cell."

()()()()()()()

Jones was taking the stairs two at a time, until he reached Peter's office.

"Peter, there's someone here to see you. It's Neal's psychiatrist, Dr. Ford. Do you want me to send her up?"

"Oh yeah, this should be choice."

"Agent Burke, I'm Miranda Ford."

"I know who you are, and lady I have to give it to you. You have a lot of guts showing up here," Peter paced the floor, running his hands through his hair. "Do you know how long it's taken to get Neal to the point of seeing someone for treatment? He's not exactly Mr. Trust, and you go and do this. You people do have rules about this kind of thing."

"I know what you must think of me, but this isn't about me, it's about Neal. I..." He cut her off with a raised hand.

"Do not... you do not get to pretend that you care about Neal. I have... we all have worked our asses off here to keep this kid on the straight and narrow, to help him turn his life around and when it looks like he's finally turning that corner, making a life for himself, getting over Kate. You go and do this. I send the kid to you for help and you take advantage of him? I mean how many gut punches can one person take. So, please forgive me doctor if I am not buying your concern."

"You have every right to be angry, there is no justification for my actions. _I_ have to live with the consequences of my actions, not Neal. I don't think he's guilty, at least not of stealing the painting, but I can't prove it without his help. I know you don't believe he did it either." Peter took in a deep breath, stopped pacing and leveled his gaze onto Miranda.

"OK, you have my attention."

"Your wrong about him not trusting. He trusts you more than anyone. I know you'll do whatever is best for Neal, and right now I am what's best for him. I can help him."

"And how do you propose to do that? Your husband has filed a complaint with NYPD. They have a forged painting by Neal of the Degas from your office and several pieces missing from the Channing. Neal's tracking device places him at your office around 7 pm last night, long after his appointment and he was in the Channing today. He was in both places at the exact times the paintings went missing."

"You said there are paintings missing from the Channing?

"Yeah, you seemed surprised. Your name is on the complaint along with your husband's attesting to the loss."

"Neal was never out of my sight the entire time we were at the Channing... he couldn't have taken anything. Didn't he tell you that?"

"He's clammed up." Peter leaned over and rubbed his brow wearily. "I don't know what's going on with him. I've never seen him like this. It's as if he's given up, it's like talking to a ghost. What did you mean he couldn't have done it? If you were with him the whole time, then he has an alibi. What do you know Dr. Ford, that you are not telling me here?"

"The only other person who would have access to my office, the museum and those paintings is my husband."

"You think your husband might be responsible? Why would he want to frame Neal?" He saw the look on her face, "Ah, you think he might have known about you and Neal?"

"Contrary to what you might think, today was the only time I've been with Neal."

"But you must have considered it, you don't strike me as someone given to a momentary fling and trust me if my wife was thinking of someone else, I would know it."

"I don't know, but it's the only thing that makes sense. Simon and I haven't been happy in a long time. He's always been about control...I've become like one of his possessions, and he hates to lose. But.. I can't believe he would do something like this, but then we haven't really communicated in a very long time..."

"Let me do some checking into this, Neal's having an alibi will help that along."

"Agent Burke, I have to talk to him, but he is refusing to see me. Can you help me?"

"Well, that's Neal alright, he can be stubborn. My boss was able to pull some strings and have this matter placed under the Bureau. Neal's out on house arrest, until the matter is settled. He's at June's."

"One more thing, Agent. Can you access the records of the car crash that killed Neal's parents?"

"What car crash?"

**Two hours later**

"Peter, I think we may have gotten a lucky break," Jones approached with the results of his search; his normal calm not in evidence. "The archives show that Jack and Celia Caffrey were killed when a postal delivery van smashed into their car, on a two lane stretch of road, two miles outside their home in Arlington. Because it was a government vehicle we were able to pull the vehicle inspection report. It seems the axle broke, the van was virtually unsteerable. It plowed into the Caffrey car, probably before they knew what hit them. The police report states their nine year old son, was thrown clear from the car by the impact. He suffered serious injury and was hospitalized for over a month." Jones handed the folder over to Peter.

"Jesus, Neal. I knew there was something in his past, something bad, something he could never share. I had no idea what he's been through. First his parents are killed, then he wakes up a month later and their gone. He was just a kid, it explains a lot now about Kate 's disappearing act and how it affected him. My God, the explosion, it must have been like reliving that for him." Peter slumped into his chair, staring at the folder in his hand.

"You are a good friend Agent Burke. Neal is lucky to have you in his life. He's going to need you more than ever now."

tbc


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 8**

Home was no comfort; he felt numb, inert. He could barely breath or move, and he knew he would feel worse. This was all too familiar; he had done something wrong, it was his own fault. He wanted to vanish. If he could only erase himself as easily as he had the torn and tattered canvases now strewn about his apartment. How do you obliterate desire, without obliterating memory? He believed she would fill a void inside him. Ill with shame, he couldn't remember now how long he lay on the bathroom floor. Purging the contents of his stomach hadn't helped, but the cool floor tiles brought welcome relief to the burning in his cheeks flamed by the foolishness of his desire.

Love obscures ones vision. He had spent most of his life painting, no copying what was right before him. Now he was painting images that weren't there. He couldn't control them, impose any meaning onto them. Were they from memories, he thought. Memories were strange things, maybe he imagined he remembered. If they were his memories, they were wordless, vacant shapes and colors.

"Talk to me, tell me how to make this stop," he implored, his voice barely above a whisper.

The silence was deafening, he wrapped his arms about his body, maybe to assure himself he still existed.

()()()()()()

"You must be June. I have heard such wonderful things about you from Neal."

"Likewise, please do come in Dr. Ford. It is such a pleasure to finally meet you. Neal is upstairs in his apartment. I am so very glad you came."

"How's he doing?"

"From the looks of him, I'd say lost. He doesn't know it yet, but he needs your help tonight."

June could see the pain in Miranda's eyes. Her face so expressive of the concern and longing she felt for him. June could only imagine what Neal had come so highly to regard in that face, her loyalty, unselfishness and courage. She wouldn't let go of him. The older woman felt the unmistakable kinship of a fellow traveler, a woman who would give everything, risk everything ... lose everything. In that brief moment an intimacy passed between them born of mutual recognition and of grief.

"Come, I'll show you to his quarters."

Her throat tightened as she moved down the hallway, supported by June's direction. Neal's door was slightly ajar. The room was dark as she entered, the only illumination from moonlight cascading in from the open doors to the terrace. Bits of light striking the tins of paint scattered about the table and floor, dancing on the shattered wine glass and upended easel gave a surreal quality to the violence that had taken place before. As her eyes accustomed to the dark, she made out a figure sitting against the cabinets on the far wall of the small kitchen. She took a breath.

"Why are you sitting on the floor?"

"Because, every time I try to stand up; I get dizzy."

"We've seen that before."

"Why are you here, Miranda?" She approached him and sat on the floor across from him.

"To help you."

"That's funny, coming from someone who just set me up. I don't know that I can survive much more of your help."

"I know you're hurt. I... " Before she could finish, he cut her off with a raised hand. The thought of her betrayal brought the bitter taste of bile again to the back of his throat.

"Please stop, I can't do this anymore," he buried his head in his hands.

"Neal, look at me." She moved his hands away, raised his chin and took his face into her hands. His cheeks were faintly flushed and his eyes were dilated and still avoiding hers. "I did betray you, just not in the way you think." Slowly he looked up into her eyes, she wouldn't abandon his gaze as he searched them for any sign of hope.

"Simon staged the theft of the Degas from my office. Agent Burke is at my home now, he's recovered the painting and the missing pieces from the Channing. Simon forged my name to the affidavit against you. Why didn't you tell Peter you were with me the entire time? You had an alibi, but you didn't take it. Why?"

"Because nothing good ever lasts."

"Is that what this is all about? as she looked around the destroyed room. You are so ready to blame yourself, to assign fault, to give up."

"Why do you care? Why is it so damn important to you, anyway?" He pulled away from her, stood and began pacing the floor, stalking up and down.

"Because, you are important to me, and it's important that you understand all this. If you trust nothing else, trust this; I am on your side. If you are ever going to have a chance at feeling good enough, at not punishing yourself; you have to figure this out. I think you were starting to remember. I think these paintings are memories you've tried to avoid. I think as hard as you want to forget, to destroy the past, you can't. As an artist you can't hide from yourself. Degas said the true artist paints from memory."

"Enough with the Degas!" he screamed. You're not saying anything to me."

"WHY destroy these paintings, then? Why make a copy of the Degas?"

"I copy: for the power; I copy: for the release; I copy: because I am afraid; I copy: because I don't know how to stop." Tears began to cloud his vision, if he closed his eyes he would fall right where he stood; the urge to run was overpowering.

She went to him and put her arms around his shoulders, resisting his attempt to pull away. He struggled mightily against her acceptance, and in that instance she felt what he felt, like someone suspended over a precipice, hurtling past an internal fault line. She had to resist the temptation to fall, to fall with him. Sam's voice echoed in her head, "Be his psychiatrist." It was as if her temporal lobes had been disconnected, speech and memory unable to co exist.

"What do you want from me?" his voice was raw with emotion, as he slumped against her.

"The only way you can understand this, is to feel it."

"What I feel, is helpless. Is that what you want?"

"I want you to feel it and not be destroyed by it. I want the best part of you, the you that's not pretend, the you that is real. Feeling helpless is real. What do you want, Neal?"

"I don't want to feel nine years old forever," his voice wavered and his body trembled slightly as he held onto her. He tried to clear his mind, but he felt exhausted to his core. Certain he wouldn't pitch over again, he managed a small smile, "I'd also like to stop feeling dizzy and like I am going to puke any second."

"OK, maybe we should sit." They moved to the small couch, and sat half in darkness and half in moonlight.

The immensity of her desire to help him, the fierceness of her faith in him, was sustaining. He had conned so many people, seduced their secrets from them. The challenge to discover what they were hiding from him was always the game. Now his challenge was to discover his own secrets, and after a lifetime of journeying, he wanted to be home.

"You told me your first dizzy spell happened, when you thought Jack had forgotten you."

"Yeah, we were going home for the holidays. Mr. Brewer had opened our home for the first time since the accident. He had arranged some time to be there with us."

"You thought Jack had abandoned you, I think the way you must have thought I had abandoned you earlier. Believing I set you up must have been devastating,... and yet you blamed yourself, believed it was your fault even though you were innocent. You believed Jack blamed you, faulted you for your parent's death."

"He did. When I was in the hospital, Jack came everyday to visit me. I remember how all of a sudden he looked bigger, older. At night he would sneak into my room, so I wouldn't wake up alone. I was terrified of the dark, and the nightmares would wake me. I would see him there and the shouting in my head would stop, I couldn't hear them and nothing hurt anymore. He did this every night until I went home."

"It sounds like he loved you very much, go on."

"One night when I woke up screaming, Jack asked me if I remembered what happened. I told him. We were coming back from my mom's recital, she taught dance classes part time from a studio my dad built for her. She was a dancer before they got married. Jack had a game and couldn't come. I was sitting in the back seat, making a drawing of one of the dancers. I wanted to show her. She always looked at my drawings as if was the very first time she had seen them. I got out of my seat belt, and I was showing her the drawing. I remember dad saying, "Hey buddy, put back your seat belt, you know the rules. Everybody wears their seat belts." Mom put her hand on his shoulder, "Oh honey it's OK, just this once. Neal has something he wants to show me." Dad turned away for a moment and that's when I saw the lights from the truck and heard mom screaming."

"What did Jack say, when you told him?"

"He didn't say anything. The next night he didn't come."

"So you thought, he blamed you."

"I knew he blamed me."

"There is only one person who knows the truth of that, and you have shut him out of your life. Tried and convicted him."

"If I am not to blame, if it's not my fault, whose is it?"

"It no ones fault Neal. You didn't kill your parents, you are not responsible for their deaths. Peter helped me access the records from the night of your parents car crash."

"What, Peter knows about this?"

"The truck that crashed into your parent's car was a government vehicle. The FBI was able to do a search and records showed the crash was due to mechanical failure. Nothing your parents did or didn't do could have altered the outcome." He leaned back against the sofa and closed his eyes. She could sense something move deep within him.

"Do you mind if I turn on the lights?"

"No," he sighed. At first the light was blinding, it hurt his eyes; then it became a soothing counterpoint to the dark.

As she looked at the torn canvases littering the room, Miranda asked "Why do you think you never copied Degas before?"

"What? I am sorry, I don't understand what you're asking? I copied one last night."

"I know, but why last night and not before?"

"I hadn't planned to copy it. In fact, I painted something of my own, but I got scared and covered it over with the Degas."

"Do you know what you were afraid of?"

"I don't know, but I thought if I could just get it to you, you would help me."

"Even though a part of you wanted to hold onto the old way of protecting yourself, another part wanted to be discovered. You wanted me to see your paintings, just as you once wanted your mother to. She loved you and your creations. Your last interaction with her was to show her a drawing, a dancer."

"And you think it's why I've never copied Degas, because of the dancers and the connection to her. It was too close."

"It makes sense, Neal."

"But why now, why change now? Why give up what I know, what keeps me sane?"

"The tragedy is that a person caught in a trap and seeing only one door, can't resist using that door. Repression is like a drug dealer, it will supply help at the moment, a quick fix, but eventually in the end it will exact a cost. We have been chipping away at that deal in our work, and I think you were ready to let someone in, to let me in to help you. And I am so sorry for betraying that trust."

"Don't."

"But, I think you are ready for the truth, as painful as it might be. I think you have been been punishing yourself all this time, because you felt responsible for your mother and your father's death, and helpless to do anything about it. But also because to truly paint again, is to acknowledge they are gone, that she is gone and will never be there to see your paintings again, to tell you how much she loved them and you."

It was as if something in him broke, a sea of feeling flooded into him. "All this time, I have been so lost, and now that...that I've found...I am sorry," he tried to regain his composure. No words would come, he simply put his head on her shoulder and cried.

They sat like that for some time.

"You're saying goodbye, aren't you? You never answered my question earlier, was any of it real?"

"Yes, it was real for me."

"Then stay with me."

"I can't. I hope one day you will forgive me, and understand my decision. I have work to do and so do you. I want to come to love, free and confident of who I am. You deserve nothing less."

They sat in silence for awhile longer. As she rose to leave she wrapped her arms around him one last time, holding his frame tightly. She whispered, "I have to go now," and walked to the door. Her heart was beating faster than it should. Outside, she sank against the wall; her body finally betraying the emotion she wouldn't let him see. Saying goodbye to him was harder than she could have ever imagined. Her vision dimmed by her tears, she hardly saw June approaching her.

She felt as if she were falling, breaking up and sinking beneath the tide of sadness engulfing her. She maintained her balance only through a sheer force of will, as she leaned precariously against the wall outside his door. She couldn't recall how long she had been there, when she felt the warm touch of June's hand against the small of her back.

"Dr. Ford, are you alright?"

Her heart was breaking, it took everything to simply nod. June gently squeezed her shoulder.

"It's not easy loving a man like Neal, but then you can't imagine yourself not loving him. The hardest part is letting go, I wish I could tell you it'll get easier."

She looked at her with such sympathy and understanding, that the truth of her words eased the pain inherent in them.

The night air was cool and crisp against the burning in her cheeks, she could breathe finally. As she stepped down to the street, the familiar Taurus pulled up and Agent Burke got out.

"Dr. Ford, did you see Neal? How's he holding up?"

"He'll be OK."

"How are you holding up?" he asked, sympathy settling into his features, his warm eyes searching hers.

"I've been better, I will be better."

"For the record, I am sorry about what I said back at the office. I was out of line."

"You were right, you wanted to protect Neal. You are a good friend, Neal was right to put his trust in you. He's going to need you now. Take care of him."

"I will."

She squeezed his hand gently, "Good night Agent Burke."

()()()()()()()()()()

**Three Months Later**

As he walked up the stairs to the bustling center, a sly smile played across his face as a twinkle lit up those remarkable baby blues. Several months ago this now thriving childrens clinic had little prospect of opening. The board of directors had exhausted all avenues to secure the last funding requirements, when an anonymous donor stepped in with a generous gift. Now scores of underprivileged and troubled kids had a world class, state of the art treatment center to call home.

"Neal," she smiled with surprise, pulling him into a warm embrace.

"What are you doing here?"

"My shrink says I need to work on my inner child, he winked knowingly. I've been seeing Susan since she came back from maternity leave, once a week in therapy. She told me you were working here. This place is incredible, I had a chance to look around while you were in session. The kids are awesome and the staff; this is truly impressive, Miranda. You're doing great work here, much needed work. It looks good on you."

"Thank you, I really love it here. There's so much to do, but at the end of the day I feel exhiliarated, go figure. We can always use another pair of hands if you've got some free time. You look well."

"I am getting there. I can't stay long. I've got to get back to the office, we have a big case going and I am the lead investigator. Imagine that."

"I can, Agent Peter Burke is one smart man, and a shrewed judge of character."

"I have something I want to give you first." He took the packet he had been holding under his arm, and gave it to Miranda. As she unwrapped it, there was Neal's original portrait of her, freed from the copied Degas he painted over it.

"It's beautiful. I am not sure this is an accurate depiction. I mean, the woman here is.."

"As beautiful on the outside, as she is on the inside," he interrupted her. Someone very wise told me that an artist only paints, what he sees from memory. Might be that fellow, Degas."

Miranda smiled, as she fingered the frame of the portrait. "At that moment, one of Miranda's small patients came up and noticing the painting said excitedly, "Dr. Ford it's you."

"Why, yes it is; my friend Neal painted me. What do you think we should do with it?"

"I think we should hang it up, like in a museum."

"I agree."

"Here let me, Neal said. He lifted the small child, as she and Miranda hung the portrait over her desk. The three then stood back admiring their work. The small child laughed, "looks good to me" and ran off into the day room.

Miranda echoed the sentiment, "It looks good to me too."

Neal turned to Miranda and wrapped his arms around her, kissing her cheek softly. As he released her, he whispered, "Thank you. Now, go and save the world."

Later that evening, as he made his way up to his apartment; June met him on the landing.

"You had a guest earlier and they brought something for you, she said with a twinkle in her eye. "I left it on your desk, dear. I hope you don't mind."

Slightly puzzled, but knowing that look of June's, he knew no more answers would be forthcoming. He proceeded on to his apartment. There on the desk was a beautifully crafted origami flower. On one petal was the inscription, open me. He gently began to tease each paper petal until it completely unfolded in his hands. "I found something you feared you might have lost, love Miranda" was written inside along with a telephone number. He walked out onto the terrace, filled with a sense of hope and possibility. The sun was just setting over the city in a beautiful show of the late summer sky, a last hint of flame along the horizon. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed the number on the paper.

"Hi Jack, it's Neal."

The end.

Author's Notes: I want to thank all of you who have been reading my story, and who have added me to your author alerts and favorites. It was totally unexpected and much appreciated. You put your work out there, and are never sure if anyone out there gets it. It can be a lonely process. I especially want to thank everyone, who took the time to leave a written review. Having your feedback was immensely supportive and encouraging.


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